PETALS AND THORNS (8 page)

She murmured a sleepy protest when he turned her over but settled in again as the Beast worked the hot oil into her breasts, belly, and thighs with the same meticulous care. Elastic and relaxed, she watched him with half-closed eyes.

“The scratches are healing,” he commented, rubbing more oil into the creamy skin of her breasts.

“Do you miss them?”

She caught a flash of a wicked grin under the cowl. “A bit, perhaps. But it's hard to mind with you here, with your satin skin filling my hands. And it will be a memory for later.” Amarantha wondered at the sadness in his voice.

“Come, then.” The Beast slid a strong arm around her shoulders and helped her to sit up. He held her short robe for her so she could slide her arms in. Night had fallen to full dark. “I shall dine, and then you can meet me in the dining room in a little while. I think we won't dress you for dinner tonight. Your little robe is fine. Given the exertions of the last nights, we will keep tonight gentle and only for your pleasure.”

“Only mine? None for you?”

“I should rephrase—only pleasure for you, no pain. None of the sharper spices.”

It made her think, though. For all that the last three days had been full of stimulation of every kind for her, he had never asked her to touch him. She faltered at suggesting it, however. And she felt uncomfortably like a coward.

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Amarantha turned and placed her hand on the Beast's sleeve, feeling the strong arm beneath.

“Can we not truly dine together?”

The Beast hesitated.

“Remove your cloak and cowl. Keep the mask if you like, but I… This is our third night together out of seven. Isn't it time I saw who you truly are?”

With a rough sound, the Beast tore his cloak off and threw it to the floor.

“You wish to see who I truly am? This is me, Amarantha. Half-man, half-beast—all monster.” The bitterness rolled through his voice.

He wore a black mask, yes, but Amarantha could still see that golden fur covered parts of his face and blended into his hair. A darker gold, the Beast's hair formed a ruff around his head and trailed down his back, which seemed oddly hunched. His mouth was distorted by a heavy-furred upper lip and fangs too large to fit neatly inside. The Beast's eyes flashed feline green through the eye slits.

“You ask about my pleasure? I enjoy your pain, your struggles. I take pleasure in displaying you, in watching you suffer just for me. If I could, I would keep you forever just to make you tremble and cry out. Don't ever forget what kind of beast I am.”

A coil of arousal slid through Amarantha's belly to lick fire in her groin at his words.

“I don't forget,” she whispered. “Remember, I'm the one wearing the marks of your whip.”

The Beast stared at her, the glint of his eyes a bit wild. Amarantha laid the palms of her hands on his heaving chest. All man there. She tipped back her head to look up at him. So softly that she could barely hear herself, she whispered, “And I liked it.”

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“Now,”—Amarantha stepped back, placing deliberate distance between them—

“am I too mussed, or can we go straight to dine?” Her stomach gurgled, and she laughed, patting her belly. “I confess I'm hungry.”

The Beast, seemingly bemused, offered her his arm again and escorted her to the dining room. Her chair sported a fluffy cushion tonight, in deference to her sore bottom. Amarantha still tucked one leg under her, to keep her weight from pressing on the bruises.

After the delicious massage, though, she felt relaxed and glowing. The minor twinges reminded her of how the Beast had looked, so intent on her, so aware of her every breath and quaking response.

She was careful not to watch him eat. The Beast's mouth clearly gave him difficulty, making him less than neat. Silver forks did not mesh well with teeth meant to tear meat.

“Mmm, have you tasted this?” she asked him and knelt up to offer the Beast a piece of meat with her fingers. He froze, then leaned forward to gingerly take the morsel from her hand. His tongue rasped her fingertips, sweeping up the gravy.

“Delicious,” he answered.

They enjoyed a different meal, without the relentless sexual tension and the formality he'd demanded of her thus far. The Beast had shed some stiffness with his cloak. They talked more of his reading and his interest in horse breeding and horticulture. Amarantha found she possessed no actual interests. She'd seldom thought beyond what lovely thing she might next acquire and whether she'd become a princess or a queen.

Amarantha never thought she'd share a cozy evening with a man more than half-beast, dining in a short, transparent robe with her hair in tumbled disarray.

She felt deliciously worn-out, sated from the food, and slightly drunk on wine. Far in the house, a clock chimed.

“Amarantha, I must ask you a question.”

She gaped. “Don't do this, please.”

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“Amarantha, my bride, will you beg me to collar you, chain you to my bed, and fuck you?”

Amarantha clenched her teeth together. Why did he do this? The same question every night, phrased so that she couldn't possibly agree.

She cocked her head. He waited stoically for her refusal, she could see.

“And what if I said yes? What would happen then?”

He didn't answer. Couldn't answer?

“No, Sir Beast,” she said as gently as she could. “I can't do that.”

As if released from a spell, the Beast scooted back his chair and held out a furry hand to her. “Very well, then. Come over here.”

To Amarantha's surprise, the Beast helped her onto his lap, snuggled her up to his chest, and settled her sore bottom so it rested comfortably between his thighs.

He tugged on the belt of her robe, pulling it loose. He coaxed her to lie back against his arm while he drew the flimsy robe open.

Amarantha watched his intent face as he stroked her. He caressed her throat with light fingers, trailing over her breasts, belly, and thighs. She liked being able to see the glint of hunger rise in his eyes as she wakened to his touch. Her nipples tightened for him, and he tweaked them gently until she squirmed. By the time his fingers finally dipped between her thighs, she ached for him.

When she climaxed in his arms, his glowing eyes missed nothing.

In what had become their ritual, the Beast carried Amarantha up to bed. He brushed the tangles from her hair and tied her wrists to the headboard with the wide satin ribbons.

“I'll want you ready for more games tomorrow, my sweet. I have several interesting things planned.” He ducked his head and lapped at her breasts with broad rasps of his tongue. Amarantha felt herself reawaken. She moaned and pulled at the ribbons. The Beast slid down her belly, licking and nipping as he went. Then he seized her ankles and spread them wide, exposing her sex suddenly. Amarantha

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gasped, then nearly shrieked when he buried his mouth against her stimulated flesh.

She writhed under his ministrations, the tension filling her.

The Beast chuckled and placed a wet kiss on the tender inside of her ankle. He tucked her feet under the sheets and pulled the blanket up. Amarantha kicked her legs restlessly.

“That ought to give you something to dream about.” The candles started winking out. “Since you ought to wake earlier tomorrow, come meet me in the stables. It's time you met my horses.”

* * *

She tugged in surprise, and the sensation of the satin biting into her wrists sent a spear of arousal through her. Her arms stretched loosely above her head, and the covers had slid down overnight, exposing her breasts to the late-morning light.

Amarantha's nipples puckered, and she felt her sex thicken with moisture.

The Beast would probably love to leave her like this all day—contemplating the night to come, filling with need, and unable to do anything about it except, yes, stew in her own juices.

Except he'd mentioned that she could see his horses. The snow had passed, and day glowed with brilliance outside the windows. But she supposed that she would do as he wished.

The ribbons slithered off her wrists, releasing her. Before long Amarantha, dressed—with her hair in a long braid—ran down the stairs to find the stables. She wore a reasonably modest riding outfit. Modest unless you noticed that the little jacket could be unbuttoned to reveal her naked breasts upheld by stiff corset cups.

And the divided habit left her crotch and bottom bare under the draped fabric.

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Amarantha's sex tingled in moist anticipation, and her taut nipples chafed lightly on the tweedy jacket.

The stables competed with the manse itself for magnificence. Clearly the Beast loved his horses well. Stalls as big as bedrooms housed the finest horses Amarantha had ever seen. All acquired through the Beast's thorough research of breeding lines, and many bred and foaled on the estate, she now understood. The fabulous stallion her father had ridden home—and kept—had come from here, she realized.

She found the Beast in a stall with a surprisingly ugly mare. Scrawny with a mangy coat, the mare seemed like a beggar child at a royal ball.

“Good morning, my bride.” The Beast greeted her in great spirits. He wore his mask with his riding clothes, and Amarantha could see how his odd mouth smiled at her and how his green eyes gleamed with pleasure to see her.

She patted the mare, who whuffed in return. “Is this one of your prize mares?”

Amarantha teased him. “In disguise, perhaps?”

“Alas, no,” the Beast replied. “She's too old to breed. Which is unfortunate because there are good lines in her background. Your father was in dire straits when he rode her here. In her senior years, she became a poor man's horse. Now she can live out her remaining days as a rich beast's horse.” He laughed, and Amarantha heard the familiar bitter tinge to it.

“Come into the light, my sweet.” The Beast held out a hand to her, and they left the mare happily munching her oats.

“Do the horses mind your invisible servants?”

“No. Like you, they become accustomed quickly.”

“I'm not one of your horses.”

“Would you like to be?” The Beast gave her an assessing look. “The idea has possibilities. I shall have to think on that.” They stopped in the bright light spilling in the stable doors. “Unfasten your jacket for me and let me see your delightful breasts.”

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Feeling the thrill of his interest, Amarantha fumbled with the buttons, then held her jacket open. Her nipples contracted tightly in the cold air, a shiver rippling through her flesh to her groin.

The Beast studied her, idly tapping a riding crop against his muscular thigh.

Amarantha shivered again, wondering if he planned to use it on her, though she'd been obedient.

“And now bend over that bale of hay and lift your skirt for me.”

She turned around to the bale he spoke of and leaned over it. The bale only came to thigh level, so she had to prop herself with one gloved hand on the prickly hay and reach back to flip up the fabric flap that disguised just how divided her skirt was.

“Spread your legs and bend lower so your nipples touch the hay.”

Amarantha obeyed, her nose nearly buried in the spicy hay, her nipples pricked by the scratchy stuff, her thighs bare above the riding boots, sex open to the chilly air and the Beast's intense gaze. She could feel it on her, potent as his touch.

She found herself trembling with taut anticipation for the crack of the riding crop.

Oddly, Amarantha couldn't tell whether she feared the pain or was desperately afraid he wouldn't do it.

Which he didn't.

Instead the Beast had her stand up and dress herself again, instructing her in a gruff voice. Then he led her to an already saddled mare. Amarantha peered at the saddle, which was covered with a rough burlap toward the cantle, and a little cluster of soft bristles poking through. The front half of the saddle sported an oiled velvet. Another cluster of bristles thrust out of the pommel.

The Beast handed her up and helped her sit astride. With her sex split open, the pommel bristles tickled her wet folds, which slid on the oiled velvet. The burlap rubbed against her bottom, chafing skin still a bit sore from the spanking, and the bristles poked her a bit uncomfortably at her puckered nether mouth. She frowned, and the Beast chuckled at her expression.

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“All the better to prepare you for this evening's fun and games, my dear.”

He fastened her riding boots to the stirrups with little hooks, swung up on a massive black stallion, and led them out through the walking paths of the formal gardens, then into the forest. Amarantha quite quickly found herself agitating to escape the tormenting bristles and nubs of the saddle. Her mare strode in a smooth gait, but no matter how Amarantha shifted, something pricked and stimulated her soft flesh.

She tried raising herself off the saddle, which worked for a time, until her thigh and calf muscles tired, forcing her to sit again on the titillating bristles. All the time her tender nipples rubbed on the jacket. The Beast led them deeper into the forest. Amarantha whimpered at his broad back, but he didn't turn around.

“My lord…” she finally called out.

“Yes, my bride?” Still the Beast didn't look at her.

“I-I can't bear much more of this, my lord.”

“That is unfortunate, Amarantha, since you must.”

By the time they wended back to the stables as the sun sank low, Amarantha was nearly frantic from the subtle torture. Tears rolled down her flushed face, and her body prickled in hot arousal. The Beast helped her down from her mare, not commenting, though he supported her when she sagged on weak limbs. He cast an eye at the setting sun and held Amarantha by her gloved hand. She pressed her thighs together, trying to soothe the overstimulated flesh.

The last of the sun winked over the horizon, and the Beast pushed her up hard against the stable door. Amarantha cried out in shock when he ripped open her jacket, sending buttons flying, and devoured her aching breasts with a rapacious mouth. He thrust his gloved hand into her oversensitized sex, and she came immediately, screaming out her release to the evening sky.